


Making a List (Checking it Twice)

by cantthinkofausername_B_Pike



Series: Carry On Countdown 2017 [27]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Carry On Countdown, Christmas Lists, Fifth Year Baz, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 13:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13101069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantthinkofausername_B_Pike/pseuds/cantthinkofausername_B_Pike
Summary: Mordelia asks Baz to write a letter to Santa with her.





	Making a List (Checking it Twice)

**Author's Note:**

> Carry On Countdown Day 28: Christmas Lists/Letters to Santa  
> so this was actually the first fic I wrote for the Countdown, pretty much right after the prompts were released. So that's why it is over 1k and makes some sort of sense: I actually put time into this.

The car screams into the garage, Fiona braking at the last possible second. After only a second she’s out the door, walking, no, striding to the house, her black clothes a stark contrast against the snow covering the ground, smoke curling from a cigarette between her fingers. I always complain about her driving, but truth be told it’s the best part of school holidays. Fiona’s complete disregard for speed limits, the rules of the road, and the laws of physics is exciting, freeing. For just a second, I can be completely terrified about something other than the upcoming time at home.

Home. It’s not really the right word for Hampshire; Watford’s always been home for me. Not that I’d ever let anyone know that. At Watford, I’m a king. I sit on a throne of glowing expectation and possibility. The only challengers are the Mage (who, my father tells me, doesn’t have much time left), Penelope Bunce (who would be more of a rival if she wasn’t Snow’s crony), and Simon Snow himself. Who is the most insufferably irritating person on the face of this earth. Who opens the windows of our room when he knows it’s freezing outside. Whose golden hair turns silver in the moonlight, who has moles on his neck that I want to count, to kiss, to bite-

I shake my head. 

Lately, whenever I think of Simon Snow, that happens. Whatever that was. My thoughts go completely off the rails.

But if I’m a king at Watford, I’m nothing in Hampshire. I’m a scared, angry boy whose family pretends he’s normal when he’s not. Father and Daphne know I’m a vampire, and act as though ignoring the fact will make it disappear. They’ve forbidden me to tell any of the kids, and act like it’s for my own protection when I know perfectly well it’s because they don’t want to scare them. Hampshire is home to a happy family, one made of Father, Daphne, and the kids. One without me.

Slowly, I open the passenger door of the car and climb out. I’m not at all prepared for the next few days. I grab my suitcase from the trunk and trudge inside.

 

***

 

I’m curled up under a blanket on the couch in my room (where I will be staying, with the exception of mandatory family events, for the remainder of my holiday) when the door bursts open. From where I’m sitting, I can’t see the doorway, so I whip my head around to see who’s invading my privacy.

“I’m writing a letter to Santa!” Mordelia exclaims. She’s wearing the unlikely combination of black and silver cowgirl boots, a dress that might have been her Halloween costume (she was the Wicked Witch), and a headband with bells and reindeer antlers. She’s barely four feet tall, but her loud presence more than makes up for it.

I raise my eyebrow. I love my sister, but I really don’t see what this has to do with me. “Hey, sis. Nice antlers.”

“They’re so cool! I wanna go have a snowball fight, but I gotta tell Santa what I want for Christmas first.” She leaps across the room until she’s only a few inches away from me. She hasn’t mastered the concept of personal space yet. “Don’t want him to forget. Will you have a snowball fight with me?”

“Certainly.” I don’t want to have a snowball fight with her. It’s cold, even colder for me. Also, she’ll be lucky if she gets a snowball within three feet of me. She’s five, and her aim is horrible. “When do you think that will be?”

“When we’re done.” She turns away from me to dump a pile of colorful markers onto my desk. I don’t know how she managed to bring all those up the stairs, or how I didn’t see them earlier.

I continue to sit on the couch. I’m not quite done wallowing in self-pity yet. (I don’t know if I will ever be.)

Mordelia throws a marker at me. “Come on, slowpoke!” 

I pick up the (uncapped) marker from where it had landed after bouncing off my face. Great. Now I’ve got a purple streak on my forehead. “What do you want from me?” I sigh, faking irritation. I’m not mad at her, and she knows it.

She’s leaning over her paper on the desk. She has to sit on the armrest to see it, but this doesn’t stop her. A very square-looking reindeer already decorates the side of the page.

Mordelia looks up. “You gotta write a letter too, Baz! So Santa brings you presents!” Mordelia says this as though it’s obvious, something everybody should know. 

I stopped believing in Santa when I was five, when he didn’t show up after Mother died. I barely remember a time when I believed in Santa. But I have to humor Mordelia. My sister deserves a perfect Christmas, and if that includes writing a letter to a myth, then so be it. But I’m not going to.

“I already sent mine,” I lie.

She gives me a stare that seems to look into my soul and call me out on my bullshit. For being five, she’s surprisingly good at that.

“So what are you asking Santa for this year?” I ask. It’s an easy distraction.

Her eyes light up. “I want a tiara and a stuffed shark and crayons and a pony…” She keeps going, but I tune her out. I know Daphne has already bought all the presents from ‘Santa’, they’re hidden away in the spare bedroom. Like every year.

It was so simple, to be five years old. Mordelia can rattle off things that she wants, and they’re all innocuous, toys. If I wrote a list, it wouldn’t look anything like that. I’m only fifteen, but I live in a completely different world.

If I wrote a list, I think it would go something like this:

1) Being human. 

I want to not have to hunt in the catacombs at night. I want to not be constantly worried about hurting the people around me if I get too hungry. I want my family to accept me. I want to not be so cold all the time.

2) Mother.

I want to see my mother, to know what it would have been like to have known her. Instead, all I get is a faint memory and an empty space in my house.

3) To stop dreaming of Simon Snow.

I want to hate my enemy. To stop seeing him, touching him, in my dreams. To get a girlfriend like the rest of everyone in my year. To figure out why Snow is the only person I think about that way. To be able to do my job and report on him to the Families without feeling guilty, like I’m betraying him.

~~4) Simon Snow~~

 

***

 

“Baz. Baz. Baaaaaaazzzzzzzz.” Mordelia is poking my arm. She sounds concerned.

I blink. Sometimes, I tune out the world and get lost in my own head. I wonder how long it was this time. “Sis? Are you done with your letter already?” I try to play it off like nothing’s wrong, but I’m not sure I succeed.

“I’ve been done with it for five minutes, dummy.” She tries to roll her eyes, but ends up going cross-eyed. “Why were you ignoring me?”

“I wasn’t! I was just… thinking, is all.”

“Sure.” She drags out the word and stares suspiciously at me. I had no idea someone who wasn’t even in grade school could be so sarcastic. Honestly, I’m impressed.

“Weren’t we going to have a snowball fight?” It’s not what I want to do right now, but it’s an excellent way to change the subject. Besides, it’s an excellent way to stop me from thinking.

Mordelia gives me a look, one that says that she has in no way forgotten my mishap and is simply allowing me to change the subject. She’s frighteningly intelligent for her age. “We gotta send the letter,” she says.

“Give it to D- to your mom,” I say. It feels wrong to call Daphne ‘Mom’, even when she’s been with us for longer than Mother ever was. “She’ll post it for you.”

“Okay,” she says, as though she’d never considered this to be an option.

“Then you get your coat and we’ll go outside, okay?”


End file.
